


The Hardest Lesson

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [12]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoping to assuage her sister's grief, Hisana seeks some help.  Renji attempts to distract Rukia from thoughts of her past trauma.  Byakuya, also, tries his hand at helping a struggling Rukia through her bereavement process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hardest Lesson

Not for another second, Hisana thinks to herself. She will not endure another second of her sister's misery, and her sister  _will not endure_  another second of misery. If she has to pull down the entire infrastructure of Soul Society to do it, Rukia will find peace.

Luckily, Hisana finds a solution that  _does not involve_  ripping asunder the fabric of Soul Society. Instead, her solution is seemingly elegant. Almost dumb-obvious. Needless to say, her scheme does require some casting aside of self-preservation and, perhaps, it involves some modicum of recklessness on her part.

Sure, there is  _probably_  a better way to do it.

But, she has had enough, and waltzing into the Eleventh proves particularly  _easy_.

She goes to the gate, announces her title and her intention to speak with Renji, and she is summarily ushered in with a, "Meh," and a limp-wristed wave. The guard goes back to gazing into some magazine after shooting her a bloodthirsty onceover. His gaze could strip flesh off the bone, she thinks to herself. But, there is nothing sexual about it. It is all brutality and gore.

Suddenly, she feels like fresh carrion dropped into a wolf's den.

Hesitantly, she moves through the gate. The division layout is the same as the Sixth's and the Thirteenth's, and, briefly, she wonders if most of the divisions have the same configuration.  _Seems like a bad idea_ , she notes to herself as she crosses into the division proper.  _Would make it easy to infiltrate_.

Hisana, however, has a  _hunch_. If Rukia is the fifth seat of Thirteen and Renji is the sixth seat of Eleven and the arrangement is the same, then Renji's quarters must be situated near where Rukia's is at Thirteen.

Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, Hisana follows the hardwood. She can almost read the grain, she stares so intensely. But no amount of sinking into her robes and fixing her gaze can drown out the commotion that her presence seems to elicit.

Apparently, the Eleventh is short on  _women_. Or, at least, women who dress like she does. And, she is unsure of whether it provokes the men sexually or violently. If she were a betting woman, she would place her money on the latter.

Suddenly, worriment crashes over her.

Not once has she ever felt for her own safety while roaming the halls of the Sixth, the Thirteenth, or the Twelfth, for that matter. The Eleventh, however, quickly rips off her armor and tosses it out the window.

It feels like a powder keg, and she has just ignited the match.

And, suddenly, she realizes that her husband's title will not save her. Not in these halls. Not with these men.

She quickens her step. Her gait lengthens. Her footfalls are light, and she pulls her shoulders up slightly.  _Slinking_  would have been too kind a description for how carefully she traverses the hallway.

Picking up her pace, she zooms toward where she prays Renji is. She is just about to step in front of the door when a sound stops her dead.

"Whatcha  _doing_?" The voice is dark, low, and it hints at the ruthlessness of its possessor.

Hisana starts and gives a short gasp. "Oh, hello." Her recovery is  _professional_. Years of pretending to feel something that she didn't proves quite useful now.

She flashes a sweet smile and sports a bright-eyed look.

 _Not working_ , she observes, deflated. Nope. Not even a little.  _What luck_ , she groans inwardly as she studies the Shinigami blocking her way.

The strange man is at least a foot taller than she is. He has a stout build, with thick meaty arms and a thick meaty neck. His features are large and ill proportioned on his round head. His nose appears to have been broken  _several_ times, and it is a different hue from the rest of his face. It is almost  _purple_ , and it is large and bumpy.

She bites back the urge to grimace.  _Good girl_ , she praises herself, holding her look of kind repose as she waits for him to respond.

He does not. Unless  _leering_  counts. He is a  _world class_  leer-er.

"I am looking for Mr. Abarai's room," she says gently, hoping he isn't someone  _official_ like the Vice Captain's long-lost brother.

"I don't know no  _Mr. Abarais_ , but if yer lookin' for  _rooms_ , mine's available."

Her smile weakens, and her heart drops. Right to her stomach. She nearly chokes on her pulse—it beats so fast in her throat—and her blood rushes so quickly to her head that she wobbles a little. "Well, I am looking for Mr. Abarai. I just assumed he would be in his room, which is right here."

He stares at her.  _Hungrily_. "Is that right?" he snarls and places his hand on the wall near her head, trapping her between his body and his arm. With his other hand, he takes the sleeve of her kimono, and he brings the silk to his face. He inhales a deep breath, his eyes skimming the fabric until they lock on her.

Hisana inhales and exhales with equal measure.  _Ah._  She knows  _that_  look a little too  _well_. At last, she has something to work with. Opening her eyes, she fashions a soft smile and her gaze coyly trails to the ground. "Maybe you know him? He is tall. Has long red hair," she manages in a low breathy voice. "Dangerous."

Gods, she  _hopes_  Renji can fell this brute.

Dropping the sleeve of her kimono, he violently pins her to the wall. "Don't know of any  _dangerous_  redheads 'round these parts." His hand travels from the small of her back and begins to trace the gentle slope of her waist.

Hisana lifts her head in a regal arch, and she cocks a brow. Oh, what fine new torture has she wrought upon herself this time?

* * *

Drinking. Ugh. It sounded like such a great idea last night, Renji thinks to himself as he readjusts the cold compress against his head. His room is pitch-black, and the air is thick with the smell of male musk and stale liquor.

It  _was_  a fucking great idea  _last night_. His division always seems much livelier when he is  _drunk_. Maybe it was because everyone else was drunk off their balls, too?

But,  _damn_ , the aftermath.

He can feel each and every nerve ending pulsate in his head, spark in his temples, and fire Gatling-gun-style across his neck and back. Even the air currents set off a volley of angry fuses that whip across his innards. Sounds? Forget it. Might as well take a hammer to his brain. It would be quicker. Probably less painful, too.

What were they even celebrating?  _Were_ they even celebrating? Maybe it was a Tip Til You're Pissed Tuesday? Or was it Arbor Day? Something. And it involved the color  _green_.

Never mind, he huffs, turning his head to the side. He isn't due to be functional until 2300 hours. He's got  _plenty of time_  to sober up. So much time.

 _Thud_.

He jerks up at the sound of his door rattling.

_What the hell?_

No telling, he thinks to himself. Probably a brawl. There's always a brawl happening somewhere at the Eleventh. Today it is at his door. It was bound to happen at some point.

He lays his head back down, but the sound of a woman's voice pulls him back out of bed.  _Rukia?_  He furrows his brows.  _Can't be_. What the hell would she be doing at the Eleventh? She would stick out like a sore thumb.

Before he can settle back down, his stupid imagination yanks him up and forces him to march his grumpy ass to the door. He can hear one of his division mates booming loudly a stone's throw away.

"Goddamn it, Tarou!" he barks, flinging back the door. "I am hung-over as fu—" before he can complete his rebuke, his whole body goes numb. His heart stops mid-beat in his chest, and his lungs empty in one exhalation.

_Holy shit, no!_

Lady Kuchiki ducks under Tarou's arm and is standing before him. Front and center. And, he hasn't even had the chance to cinch his floral-pattern dressing gown. At all.

He could've  _died_. Right then. Right there.

Realizing his state only a moment before he does, she immediately turns her head and shields her eyes with a sleeved arm. "I was looking for you, Mr. Abarai," she murmurs smoothly, like water lapping against a flat pebble.

Swiftly, he retreats into his quarters and snatches up his uniform. The fabric becomes jumpy and tangled in his hands, and he struggles to get the damn thing on.  _She didn't see everything,_ he tries to persuade himself, but the shock painted across the prim Lady's face convinces him otherwise.

"Is this your woman?" Tarou's baritone rumbles in his ears. The sound instantly sets every one of Renji's nerves on fire, and a cold rage flows through him, replacing his blood with pure explosive hatred.

"No," Renji growls as he slides his Zanpakutō into his hakama-himo. "She's Captain Kuchiki's woman." Renji moves into the doorway, and he arches a brow. "If you touch her, you better pray I kill you first because her husband will fucking  _vivisect_  you."

Tarou stares down at her, as if he is trying to remember her from somewhere. Then his face lights up like a goddamn firework. "So  _you're_  the Angel of Small Death, eh?"

What. The. Hell? Angel of Small Death? That's a  _new_  one. Never heard the Lady referred to by that name before.

Renji's stare hardens at the sight of Tarou.  _What an idiot_.

It's like the dolt has met a  _celebrity_. But, it isn't the sort of celebrity that Renji associates with the Kuchiki Lord and Lady. No, it's not the excited but appropriate exaltation that comes with being part of the Five Noble Families. It's more like Tarou has just met his favorite pinup girl. His eyes go all googly, and he practically slobbers on her silken kimono.

Renji's got  _nothing_.

Part of him feels like he should punch Tarou in the face for propriety's sake. Another part of him feels pity for Tarou, and it's not like the Lady seems put out about it. She doesn't look at all perturbed. Not in the  _slightest_. In fact, she seems wickedly amused.

"Is it true?" Tarou whispers  _loudly_. "What they say, I mean?"

 _Super covert_. Renji shakes his head slowly at the man's level of obviousness.  _Subtle as a jackhammer._

Lady Kuchiki, however, gets a strange glint in her eyes. Like a wildfire, the glint spreads across her countenance until she is donning a devious expression—the type of look that a wild cat gets when it's about to pounce on some hapless gazelle—and she lifts her head close to Tarou's ear. The two do not touch yet it  _seems_  like their bodies press against one another. With a sultry grin, she whispers something against the shell of his ear. Her words, however, do not reach Renji, even though he is trying his hardest to  _hear_  her.

Whatever she says, Renji can't help but  _feel_  it's pornographic. There is just something about the way her pink lips bud out as she speaks. And there is something bewitching about the way her eyes are set, half-lidded and distant as the words roll off her tongue like honey. She can be so engrossing, so hypnotizing, at times.

Renji feels her reiatsu flare. It comes as a quick flash, like a lightning bolt, but it is soothing, tantalizing almost. Unconsciously, he leans forward as if she is reeling him in with her spiritual pressure. The world goes a little hazy.

When she is done, Tarou gives a short pitiful whimper before crashing to the ground in a trembling heap.

Lady Kuchiki does not acknowledge the commotion as she reaches her hand out for Renji. Without hesitation, he steadies her, and she carefully steps around the  _puddle_  that once was Tarou.

Gracefully, she moves to Renji's side, and she offers him a kind smile, but, before she can speak, a loud raucous chuckle breaks across the crowd that gathers to see the  _fight_.

Ignoring the riotous noise and vulgar catcalls, the Lady shoots Renji a sobering sidelong glance. Her gaze is dark and serious. "It is Rukia," she says in a hushed voice.

Renji's brows furrow.  _Oh, right._ Lady Kuchiki probably doesn't just  _drop by_  the Eleventh without good reason. She has come to collect him, and, since it's in person, he can only assume the worst. "Of course," he says, nodding.

"Thank you," she mouths to him.

He shakes his head. It's Rukia. That's all he needs to know.

As the two approach the front of the division, Lady Kuchiki goes stock still, and she draws close to him. So close that he can almost feel her shiver under her robes. It is merely the fluttering of her robes, but he knows that she trembles. "What is  _that_?" she asks, eyes panning the edifice.

Renji gives a wolfish smile. "Captain Kenpachi."

Her eyes widen, and he can hear her suck in a deep breath. " _The_  Kenpachi?"

He blinks. Has she never met him? He finds it unfathomable, but he supposes it is possible. It's not like Kenpachi would be invited to or would  _attend_ , if he were invited, noble functions.

"Yeah," Renji says, pulling back a door. And there Kenpachi stands, towering over them.

"Tarou fell down!" Yachiru chirps from her place perched on Kenpachi's shoulder.

Renji swallows.

 _Yep, he did_.

"Good afternoon, Captain and Vice Captain," he says and bows politely.  _Don't look at her. Don't look at her,_  he chants to himself. Gods, why didn't Lady Kuchiki send a courier?

"You do that?" Kenpachi asks, staring down at the Lady. His face is perfectly unreadable as he observes her.

"It was me," Renji lies. Lady Kuchiki isn't dying on  _his_  watch. Not today. "Punched him. Real hard."

Kenpachi's gaze shifts to Renji. "Like I taught ya?"

"Yes, sir."

Kenpachi then turns back to the Lady. "What's she doing here?"

"A friend," Renji says cooly.

"She fight?"

Renji shakes his head vigorously. "No, no, no."

 _Hell, no!_  He doubts she could win a battle against a particularly lively  _curtain_  let alone one of the Eleventh's men.

"Too bad," Kenpachi says flatly, but his stare insinuates that he is aware of why men bring women into the barracks. He then steps around Renji. "When Six comes looking for you with blood in his eye, send him my way," Kenpachi commands with a glimmer of visceral excitement sparking in his features.

 _What?_ Renji blinks.  _I am Six. I'm the sixth seat. Did I get demoted?_ And, yet, Renji nods his understanding. Anything to get Lady Kuchiki out of the Eleventh alive. "Yes, sir."

If the infamous  _Six_  ever shows up ready to murder him, he'll send the guy Kenpachi's way. Wrapped up and with a bow.

"Good afternoon, Lady Kuchiki," Kenpachi states as he steps through the door.

"Good afternoon, Captain Kenpachi," she replies with a small bow.

_Holy shit!_

His eyes go wide as realization hits him like an anvil to the head.

_Fuck. Six is Captain Kuchiki!_

No one would really think that? That he? And she? Together? He can't even put it together in the same thought. No other sane person would, right?

* * *

Rukia appreciates Renji's kindness.

Really.

She does.

She keeps telling herself this, and that must count for  _something_. Yet, she cannot summon the strength to muster one smile. And, gods, has the boy earned it. If  _anyone_  has  _ever had_  a right to one of her smiles—it is Renji right then.

How she wishes she could, and she prays a bold glance in his direction will suffice. It isn't one of those teary-eyed, 'oh my life is a horrible pile of abject misery,' looks either; although, she has given him enough of those today.

She has become a damn expert at stowing away in the darkness of her mind. She knows the shadows lingering in her inner psyche better than anyone. Those shadows and she have become intimate friends. Besties. She seeks them out even when her  _real_  friend is trying his level best to pull her attention away from such idle torture.

He has nearly succeeded. The pain, fresh and raw, has diminished under his care. His method? Distractions. So many distractions. She swears he has gone all out.

First, it started when he  _saw_ her. Immediately, there was a row. He chastised her for sleeping in the middle of the day. The gall! Tossing her uniform and her Zanpakutō at her, he demanded she act appropriate for her age and rank.

She remembers peeling herself off the futon, which was no small feat considering a potent mixture of blood, sweat, and tears kept her cemented in place.

After a good-natured  _harangue_ , he informed her of the day he had  _scheduled_  specifically for her.

She nearly dove under the covers at his pronouncement. Getting dressed was already asking too much. Leaving the manor to _do things_? Unfathomable.

She probably tossed him a stone-faced rebuke. She doesn't really remember. It just  _feels_  like something that she would have done. He didn't listen, if she did.

He never does.

 _How_   _typical_.

Apparently, the first event on the  _schedule_  was pummeling the sadness out of her. Or, at least, that's what she  _thought_  when he pushed her ragdoll-limp body toward the Eleventh, where a good pummeling commenced. It didn't work.

In hindsight, she thinks he probably had a few division responsibilities to take of before he could properly commence Mission: Feel Better.

Either way, after she was good and bludgeoned, they took tea with Momo and Kira. It was a late lunch. Kira and Momo were appropriately kind and respectful, but it felt like they were talking circles around the elephant in the room, which kept her on edge. But there was something calming about having friends nearby. It staved off the darkness, keeping her mind occupied and the shadows away.

Now, he hands her a soft plush bunny. She hesitates, knowing the small token of his affection probably cost him a month's salary. He, however, is undeterred, and she would never injure his feelings. Not intentionally, anyway.

She hugs the Chappy stuffed animal close to her chest. She hopes it will warm her heart—her cold still heart. It beats, but barely.

"C'mon," he says, nudging her shoulder with an elbow.

Her frown deepens.  _C'mon, don't feel so bad_ , his sentiments scream in her ears. But, she can't help it. Everything hurts. It is an aching, wintry kind of pain, and she wonders if she will ever thaw. Maybe there are some things—some events—that are too much for one to bear? Maybe the weight of those events only lead to a slow crumbling of the soul? Maybe, piece by piece, she will dissolve? She already feels it. The color bleeds from the tapestry of life, leaving only the blackness.  She wonders:  How long could one hope to survive in the twilight of hope?

"Thank you," she musters. The reverberations of her voice are coarse and irritate the sensitive lining of her throat.

Reflexively, she runs her fingertips across the Chappy doll's head. The feeling of the soft woven fabric against the pads of her fingers brings her a small relief. Her eyes fall to the toy's perpetually smiling face.

Her heart stirs. It is painful pang. The pang quickly travels down her nervous system, spreading like wildfire across her limbs and back.

Will her resolve ever return? Is it even possible? She is at a loss for how one pieces oneself back together. Is it a day-by-day kind of deal? Is the pain supposed to recede like waves pulling from the shore? Or, is it more of an active process?

Gods, how she does not want it to be an active process. She doesn't know if she can handle it. And, what if she doesn't put herself together properly? Will she be permanently broken? Always on the verge of crumbling?

"It is getting late," Renji's voice shatters her somber thoughts.

She glances up to find him staring down at her with a hooded look.  _Great_ , she thinks to herself,  _I've made him upset now._

His gaze flits to the firmament. The stars are beginning to twinkle among the thick velvety clouds, and he inhales a deep breath. The balmy summer air saturates them, and he seems content, like a dog preparing a soulful song to the moon. "Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head. "No." She hasn't had much of an appetite since the  _event_. She took tea at lunch, but she did not touch the accompanying food.

"You've gotta be," Renji remarks, and he pulls her along. "You haven't eaten anything all day."

She stops abruptly. "No, Renji," she says, this time with more force behind her words. "I appreciate everything, but," before she has the chance to complete her sentence, she is interrupted.

An unmistakable baritone wafts over them. The voice is soft but commanding, muted but piercing. Both Rukia and Renji turn into its sound before they comprehend the words.

"Brother," Rukia greets, and she bows low.

Renji mumbles Byakuya's titled surname, and he bows his head.

Neither has understood the Captain's words nor comprehended his meaning. Instead, they stare at him with apprehensive looks before dropping their eye-lines to the ground. Counting cobblestones has always proven effective at restoring keenness to an otherwise dull expression.

"Come, Rukia," he commands in a subdued tenor.

Instantly, her muscles spark in response to his order. She is a good pace in before she replies, "Yes, Brother." Quickly, she does a half turn and bows to Renji, giving him a sharp nod of her head.

With a dim smile, he returns her gesture, clearly understanding her silent appreciation.

"My gratitude, Abarai," Byakuya states, and he pauses for a stride.

Renji jitters at the sound of his name, and he regards the captain with a wide-eyed expression of  _terror_. Rukia gives her friend a quick onceover, a little taken aback by the  _shock_  marring Renji's countenance. He probably wasn't aware that her brother even knew who he was, let alone would think enough to address him formally.

"Anything for the Lady," Renji manages belatedly, as if his mouth has filled with marbles.

Byakuya gives Renji a sharp sidelong glare.

Renji bows lower, "Captain Kuchiki," he adds sheepishly.

Byakuya's gaze travels to Rukia. He does not seem completely  _satisfied_  with Renji's answer, but he lets it go. "Come."

Rukia gives Renji another nodding look before she turns to trail after her brother. She does not ask questions. She barely  _processes_  what is happening. Wondering the how, why, and where would require too much cognitive effort for her.

She probably should have.

Byakuya is clearly expecting it. He probably fancies her a fool for  _not_   _inquiring_. He can be terribly critical of her faults.

Instead of admonishing her, he stares at her.

How long has he been staring at her? Hell if she knows. Probably hours. He isn't really the type to correct her before she has realized the error of her ways.

When her gaze meets his gray eyes, she immediately flushes. The heat that sings through her, however, is a strange one. It is icy, but it reddens the skin. It burns and chills with equal measure.

Once she shakes the fiery and frozen tendrils back, she realizes they are not on the Kuchiki property. No. A quick sweep of her surroundings informs her that they stand in a forest. A very familiar forest—the one leading to Mount Koifushi.

_Cripes, how far have we walked?_

Had she endured a coma halfway through? Is he merely waking her up?

In a stroke of a second, she realizes that, yes, indeed, her brother is providing her with a much needed wake up call.

Despite the languor of fatigue and melancholy, she is surprisingly spry on her feet. "What?" she chokes between strikes and counters.

Doesn't he already know she has been pummeled today? If any group of people were going to beat her to her senses, it would have been the Eleventh. They are a pretty persistent group.

She dodges a few rounds of kidou with relative ease.

"Very good, Rukia," he states before resting a hand on the hilt of his blade.

Immediately, she responds in kind. It is the first time in days, but her heart beats like a war drum in her chest, and her senses focus on something beyond the gloom clouding her mind. "Yes, Brother," she murmurs, panting.

"A hypothetical," he begins between parries.

She did not like where this is going. It is a sixth sense—a sinking sixth sense. She feels the bile, pungent and acrid, climb up her throat.

"I have defected and killed your red-headed ruffian friend. What do you do?"

Pure shock freezes her hand pitifully in place, and she stands, staring at him in frosty panic. Her chest clenches, purging the breath from her lungs. She struggles. To breath. To think. To move.

"I-I-I," she stammers, trying her best to train the tremor from her hand.

"Too late, you are dead and so is your whole squad," he says, flash-stepping to her back and pressing his hilt against her back. It is his favorite technique—the first one she learned to defend against.

"Again," he commands. "I have defected, killed your friend, and, now,  _you_ ," he stops short, giving her the right-of-way.

"I ask you," she tries again, this time with a firmer tone.

"Dead," he murmurs dispassionately. This time his blade stops a hairsbreadth from her throat.

She marvels at his control. Just a millimeter closer, and she would have felt Senbonzakura's bite.

"Again," he repeats, growing impatient as he sets up the strike. "I have defected, killed your best friend, and you are the only thing standing between me and the Thirteenth." Like before, he waits for her to make the first move.

"Why?" she cries. Desperately, she wants to know. Why would he defect? Why her? Why Renji? There must be a reason? Anything to keep her from wielding her blade against someone she loves.

"The matter at this point is irrelevant, Rukia," he states, easily defeating her pathetic attempt to parry. "Dead," he notes, pointing the tip of his blade at her heart. "Again."

She resists the urge to shake her head, to protest. Her heart screams out inside her chest. Her body rails against her, loud and furiously. But, she presses her lips tightly together until she can taste blood.

She will not cry. She will not sob.  _There will be no tears_.

"I am not myself. I have killed your friend, and I will kill everyone who you love. What do you do?" His voice is cold, and it is bladed.

It cuts her to the quick, and she responds viscerally, unsure of whether it was his words or his sword that moved on her first. Her reply, however, is instinctual and swift, belying her Inuzuri upbringing. A flurry of moves and countermoves leaves her in a familiar pose, with her sword fighting to pierce her brother through the chest. He keeps her efforts solidly at bay, but she can't help it. She sees Kaien all over again, and she gives out a penetrating cry.

"I would kill you," she nearly chokes on the words. Their truth steals her strength, enervating every muscle and nerve in her body.

The moment that she feels his pressure relent, she falls on bended knee, and she braces her weight against her sword, plunged deep into the earth. Every fiber trembles, and, for a moment, she dissociates, unable to take the pain as it swells and surges through her.

Upon reaching her conclusion, her heart drops, her stomach tenses, and she falls numb, lost in the darkness of cruel thoughts and even crueler feelings. "I am a monster." There it is, The Truth. She has spoken The Truth. She has said it aloud, hoping her brother will finally see her for what she is and  _hate_  her for her weakness.

He, however, does no such thing.

Instead, he places a tender conciliatory hand against her shoulder. His touch immediately stops the endless spasms that set her muscles aflutter. His warmth settles her. It calms her soul, and it eases her mind. And, she wonders whether her brother is employing some super-secret kidou technique to quell the maelstrom.

Threading the remnants of her tattered resolve into something workable, she lifts her gaze to find her brother standing in equipoise over her. He is firm, he is strong, and he is not about to leave her side.

She bows her head in shame. She does not deserve such kindness. Doesn't he know? She just told him. She told him everything. She is not only capable of killing someone whom she cherishes, but she will do it almost instinctually.

She is a  _monster_.

"Perhaps, then, we are all monsters, Rukia," he says resolutely.

Shakily, she lifts her head, and she meets his gaze. She searches him, hoping—no  _praying_ —there is another way to interpret his meaning. But, there isn't. There is not one single line or wrinkle that betokens his repugnance. In fact, he appears quite serene, and he squeezes her shoulder comfortingly.

Maybe, just maybe, she isn't a monster. She will have to contemplate this possibility, turn it over in her head for a while. See where it leads her.

But, at least, for now, it is a  _distinct_   _possibility_.

* * *

"You were at the Eleventh yesterday," Byakuya notes matter-of-factly between brush strokes. His voice is so quiet, so even that she barely catches the observation.

Hisana starts. Her heart rattles in her chest, and her eyes widen. So news of her little adventure to the Eleventh has reached her poor, unsuspecting husband _. Great._  She wonders briefly: Just how much has he been told? Just how generous or spiteful was the commentary? How many people knew? What was the attack rate on this sort of information? She doesn't want to know. Knowing would only serve to make her more paranoid than she already is.

"Yes," she murmurs, pausing briefly to smother a wolfish grin with a sleeve-covered hand, "I forgot to tell you—what with my torrid affair with Renji Abarai and all." Immediately, she winces, regretting her teasing sentiment. Her heart freezes in her chest, and her cheeks redden. The words come off too brazen and too clumsy.

Byakuya's eyes widen, and he turns to shoot her a sidelong glance.

Clearly, his informant has neglected certain  _details_  in the transmission.

Shaking her head, she snorts a small sigh. "There was quite a scene."

 _To put it lightly_.

Apparently, sexual harassment is how members of the Eleventh say, "hello."

Instinctively, her gaze drifts to the newspaper at Byakuya's elbow.

He reads her look, and, without a second thought, he snaps the newsprint open and turns to page six.

 _So, he knows where the Society Section is_ , Hisana muses to herself. A brow quirks at the observation. Oh, how her husband's predilections never cease to surprise her.

It does not take him long to find the story. It is large and splashy, soaking up a fair share of ink. It is the sort of piece that practically demands the reader's attention.

 _Slow news day_ , she groans inwardly to herself.

As he reads the article, a mixture of horror and bemusement colors his features. His forehead creases, and his brows knit together. "What is the meaning of this?" The question is aimed at himself as his eyes hungrily rove the accompanying text.

She cranes her head to get a glimpse of the story. Her heart sinks and her breath catches in her chest. It looks worse than she imagined. The picture is lurid, and the interpretation of events is borderline erotic—a double whammy. Whom has she upset at the Ninth? she wonders miserably to herself.

Leveling a sigh into the ether, she scrutinizes the image a moment longer. There she and Renji were; she demurely shielding her face, and Renji owning his dishabille like it was his job.

Byakuya's eyes fix on Renji's semi-nude form. He looks mortified, and she can only  _imagine_ what her husband thinks of the strange casual wear.

"That is how Renji opens the door," she notes nonchalantly, hoping to break the tense expression on his face. Only the gods know what Renji wears to  _bed_. Probably nothing.

Byakuya turns to her; his astonishment is clear. He blinks. Once, twice, thrice. Clearly, words elude him, but the expression is as plain as day on his face:  _Who opens their door half-dressed?_

 _Renji does_ , Hisana retorts inwardly at her husband's questioning stare.

Byakuya's gaze returns to the story for a beat longer. Shaking his head, he closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath, folds the paper and places it on his desk. Ordering his thoughts, his gaze trails to her. "Your sister's state worsened," he observes astutely.

His voice comes over her like the sharpened blade of a sword bearing down on a neck. He doesn't  _mean_  to sound cold or mechanical, she reminds herself. His cool perspicacity is the result of years of brutal training at the knee of the Kuchiki elders.

She nods, long and slow. "I thought Renji's company would ease her spirits."

There is no need to explain to him the how or why she came to that conclusion. There is no need to beg for forgiveness for any misinterpretation of her intention or her character. He already knows instinctively that her heart beats pure and true. He reads her motives well, and he does not question her virtue.

Softening his gaze, he asks, "Did he?"

She smiles gently at her husband's bluntness. "I think so."

She  _knows so_.

Within moments of entering Rukia's chambers, Renji had accomplished more than she had managed. She both admires and envies Renji's effect on Rukia. Sometimes, she feels as if she needs a decoder ring to discern her sister's emotions, but he always knows just what to do and just what to say. This, however, serves as painful reminder of the fact that he knows how to read her sister because he has had  _years_ of practice, having been the one to look out for Rukia after her abandonment. If only she had been stronger, better, thriftier then  _she_  would be the one who knows how to best comfort her own blood. The conclusion tears her to shreds, and she is quick to cut her mind on thoughts of being second best.

_Old habits die hard._

"Good," Byakuya says, slightly raising the volume of his voice.

Hisana inclines her head, and her violet gaze flutters to his face.  _Good_. His reply serves a purpose, she reminds herself. He is a deliberate man after all. He spoke to effect her, to draw her from her string of self-deprecating thoughts. He knows her dark looks and what they entail from years of  _practice_.

_Yes, it is good that Rukia has such a kind friend._

Hisana smiles brightly at her husband, taking a moment to appreciate his insight. He knows her better than anyone else does. At times, he knows her better than she knows herself.

"Thank you," she murmurs, pressing her hand against his and squeezing. The connection is fleeting but heartily felt. When her warmth receded, she swears she can detect a glimmer of want burning in his gray eyes.

Without a word, she moves to the door. She knows his gaze tracks her. She can feel its heat against her back. She also knows that he will not speak the question burning on his lips:  _Where are you going?_

Drawing the door back in a graceful fluttering movement, she scoots across the threshold and turns to close the door behind her. Just as she had been taught years ago. Like a proper lady. "To fetch your tea, milord," she replies knowingly to his silent query.

Before the door clacks shut, she peers inside the room. A mere sliver is all she needs to see the small smile that thins Byakuya's lips.


End file.
